


take my hand (take my whole life too)

by xylomylo



Series: tell you all my best lies [3]
Category: TWICE (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon Compliant, F/F, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29333277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylomylo/pseuds/xylomylo
Summary: They sit there like that, content, sharing the moment, as the night turns into yet another morning Sana will spend with Momo, and Momo, Sana.(Or: The 5 signs you've met your soulmate.)
Relationships: Hirai Momo/Minatozaki Sana
Series: tell you all my best lies [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1355803
Comments: 5
Kudos: 123
Collections: Fic/Art Exchange (The Fic/Art Tinder)





	take my hand (take my whole life too)

**Author's Note:**

> bee boop written for #ficartexchange !! title from cant help falling in love. 
> 
> >> check out my cool partner's art here!!!  
> https://twitter.com/minyaricano/status/1359159553120759817?s=20

**1\. You have probably crossed paths before.**

Kansai airport is beautiful. Majestic in its white tiled glory, complete with blinding lights that never seem to burn out – even at three in the morning, it is full of life, and Sana watches in awe as people move around like clockwork. Briefly, she wonders what it would be like to be one of them: dressed in a pinstripe suit, with the clack of her heels echoing throughout the walkway, rushing to board yet another flight –

One day. It seems far, but near enough she can make it out vaguely on the horizon: it blurs at the edges, coming to clarity only during her deepest sleeps, but in its centre is a small, sturdy hand that promises her dreams, and doesn’t let go. On good days, Sana thinks she wakes up with the warmth of said hand in her own, and everything she wishes for comes true. Like passing her exams, or getting through the auditions to be an idol trainee. 

It anchors her, even when she’s about to leave everything behind. 

“Excuse me.” There’s a quiet voice cutting though her thoughts. Sana turns, confused, only to see a girl who looks her age, standing in front her. “I think you dropped your boarding pass.” 

“Oh.” Sana takes it politely with both hands. Manners are hard to forget, when they’ve been instilled a long time ago. She looks at it – it’s definitely hers, complete with her name and all. “Thank you.”

The other girl smiles. Waves, and then disappears so quickly into the crowd, even before Sana can think about asking for a name. But the pink Barbie backpack resting on her shoulders isn’t something Sana thinks she could forget. She chuckles softly to herself, because aren’t they a little too old for things like that? 

Her mother returns from the washroom. They board the plane, with Sana holding on extra tightly to her newfound boarding pass, and she falls asleep dreaming of the same hand, again – only this time, it’s holding onto a pink Barbie backpack.

She doesn’t worry about missed opportunities, though. Fate is a beautiful thing, and Sana has always been a hundred percent on board. Two days later, they meet again, at the looming entrance of the prestigious JYPE building, and Sana gets her answer.

“I’m Momo.” Momo waves. Her hand looks tiny, even up close. Then, after a beat or two, she stretches the same hand out. It looks familiar – under the morning sun, Sana thinks it could probably hold the world.

“I’m Sana,” she beams, taking the other girl’s hand. It’s warm, like she knew it would be, despite the cold weather. “I think we’ll be great friends.”

**2\. You never fight, because you know each other too well.**

Nayeon brings it up, one day, out of nowhere. It’s a passing comment that’s supposed to hold no other meaning, but Sana takes it to heart, and it makes her puff her chest out in pride.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you guys actually fight.” The older girl comments. They’re crowded around the coffee table in their living room, eating way too much food meant for the three of them, but with Momo around it somehow always works out. “How?” 

Momo shrugs. Doesn’t even look up from her phone, and continues chewing. The obnoxious smacking sounds never seem to grate on Sana’s ears – Nayeon, however, reacts with more force than intended and snaps Momo’s jaw shut herself.

“We just don’t,” Sana says, before Momo can retaliate, given the furrow of her eyebrows. “We’re too nice, that’s why.” She sends Momo an exaggerated wink, and Momo cringes so hard her face contorts into something that would probably have broken a camera lens, and Nayeon is laughing her ass off, snide remarks rolling off her tongue as easy as they come – the moment passes, just like that.

It stays with Sana, though. Five years with Momo, and not a single fight. It keeps her thinking, even when the food coma sets in and her eyelids start drooping. It feels like an incredible feat, given their differences – something worth documenting, or bragging about, like the countless trophies they have lined up on the shelves in the company building. 

And so she does, because her lips have been itching to spill them since – 

“Momo and I never once had a fight. Did you know that?” Sana grins, at the next fansign they attend, mic in hand. Saying it out loud makes her feel like she’s just won the lottery, and the  _ ooohs _ from the fans only serve to justify the way her heart rattles in her chest. “And we’ve been friends for five years now.”

Momo laughs. Sana thinks she looks half her age with a plushie headband on. It makes her wonder how different things would have been, if they had met outside circumstances like these; if they could have been classmates, or had gotten to know each other from mutual friends, or as far as clichés go, bumped elbows at a bus stop and ended up walking home in the rain, together.

Then Momo sticks a thumb up. It’s a small testament to five years of not fighting. The gesture wraps up the topic with a warmth Sana feels all the way to her toes, because Momo looks at her with soft brown eyes that have always been anchoring, unchanging, and Sana just knows –

They would have ended up in each other’s lives, one way or another.

**3\. You feel each other's pain.**

At age twenty, Sana learns that dreams are fragile. Despite it being the foundation of her hard work, and the driving force behind the past three years spent in a foreign country, it’s terrifyingly easy for it to crumble in less than a second.

She gets a taste of it when Momo’s name is called out. 

The auditorium goes silent. Sana’s heart  _ stops _ , as Momo walks up to the stage, shoulders hunched. She doesn’t register anything else, because the other girl is hanging her head down and the emcee is saying something and then Mina’s hand is on her back, pushing her down gently for the final bow – 

The director yells cut. The filming crew starts to disperse. She blinks. Momo is already halfway backstage, with most of the girls crowding around her, and Sana doesn’t know what to do. Her chest constricts at the thought of Momo going home, and her hands start to shake – this is Momo’s dream, shattered, and everything she has given up just for it to come true has essentially been reduced to nothing. Plucked out of her hands and stepped on mercilessly, because she’s just not good enough. 

In all her fate-abiding certainty, Sana has never accounted for this. It’s always been Momo and Sana, Sana and Momo – they’re a package deal, as Jihyo would always say. But with Momo going home, her entire world has been flipped upside down, and how is she going to do it all alone? 

Somewhere, along the way, they’ve molded themselves around each other – or rather, Sana building her life around the hand in her dreams; the hand that she found, in a stroke of luck that came easier than rolling double sixes; the hand that’s since grown calloused, from independence and grit, to have and to hold.

It’s not supposed to hurt this much – the white blinding pain cripples her when she collapses into bed that night. She’s still in the competition. She still has a chance, but what is it worth now, bland and colourless, when Momo is no longer part of it? 

But Momo grabs her hands later that night, eyes hard and tears dried, and asks her to  _ keep going _ . Begs her to.  _ For me. _ The only way is forward, and Sana can only nod. Ignores the ache in her chest that protests hopelessly. Because the hand in hers is still searing and firm in its existence – she will not forget. This is not the end. Maybe things will be different. Maybe they’re more than the tragically twisted red thread that splits eventually, twirling around unsuspecting people and pulling them away. She has to believe. Closes her eyes with sheer willpower, and dreams of a different ending; one that is decorated with tears of joy, of relief, of not having to leave anyone behind, and polishes a future that shines even in the darkest nights.

This is where it gets weird – it comes true. All of it. A week later, in the same auditorium - Momo’s name gets called again, and Sana’s heart jumpstarts – three hundred volts of gratitude pouring out from every valve, flowing to every organ: mostly her eyes, as they run a free dispenser of saline crystals lined with what she thinks must be a miracle. Momo approaches the stage, barely containing her sobs, and Sana clenches her fists. Waits patiently, until the director calls for a wrap, and pushes past everyone else to pull the other girl in a hug.

Momo’s hand is warm as she finds it easily, and traps it between their bodies – it’s still there, the world, shifting back into where it’s supposed to be, on axis, and Sana promises to never forsake anything fate-related again.

Not when it’s looked so much like it’s meant to be, slow and unassuming, under the gaze of a starstruck twenty-year-old that clutches onto it with everything she has left. 

**4\. Being around them is so easy.**

“Shimo Shimo,” Momo croons, over the phone. VLives are as natural to them as breathing, now, other than the occasional warning texts they get from management for starting one too late into the night. Sana too, is no stranger to the higher tone Momo pushes herself to speak in, for the rest of the conversation. “I’ll put you on speaker now.”

Sana laughs, bright and airy. She hopes it isn’t too loud over the receiver, because Momo’s phone hasn’t always been the best in sound quality. But Momo starts talking about the injeolmi snack that she’s been craving for the last few days, and Sana doesn’t have to listen any further to know what it is that Momo wants. 

It’s become something so natural now, that she doesn’t even need to look at Momo to know what she wants. There are a million intonations in the other girl’s voice that she has already tuned into, to know which lilt means exactly  _ what _ , and today’s pout bleeding into her voice tells Sana that she has to buy that injeolmi snack for Momo, even though she has to make a detour to stop by a convenience store two blocks away. Momo is rarely whiny and affectionate on broadcast, and Sana knows when to take all of what she can get – maybe it stems from the need to establish something sturdy and solid from the depths of her chest, and parade it in front of millions of their fans who seem to know more than they should – she’s already looking forward to the uplift of Momo’s lips, when she eventually gets back to the dorm, and hangs up. 

The evening unfolds, just as she expects it to – her dumping the bag of snacks on the coffee table. Momo’s eyes lighting up, like they've seen something as magnificent as the Aurora borealis. Momo ripping it open effortlessly, and shoving most of it into her mouth like no tomorrow, and then when she’s had her fill: a small offering in Sana’s direction, followed up with a small pat on her shoulder, dusty crumbs and all, and a smile that looks just like the one all those years ago. 

Later that night, Momo enters Sana’s room just as she’s about to fall asleep, and slips under the covers as easy as coming home. It’s her form of gratitude, Sana knows, wired into subtlety, even though she never expects Momo to do anything, other than melt into the warm embrace she’s scooped into, and give into the slumber that has always given them a better tomorrow.

She dreams of the hand that always seems to find hers under her blankets.

**5\. You just know it.**

“Happy Birthday,” Momo whispers, finally, when it’s just the two of them. Everyone else has already left, because age and staying up apparently do not go together, despite their efforts to prove otherwise. There’s a wine-sticky kiss pressed to her cheek, and even then, Sana can’t help the yawn that escapes her own lips. 

“Thank you.” She means it. The alcohol lulls her into a dewy openness. It’s rare, them drinking on her birthday, only because there aren’t that many end-of-year broadcasts to attend this year, and things are surprisingly quiet. Sana is grateful – she hasn’t been able to properly celebrate in years, with the people she loves the most. With Momo. 

Eight years. Eight years, and things fall into place. Solidify. On some nights, the same hand still surfaces in her dreams, at the forefront of her mind – but it’s different. It’s now near enough for her to reach out and grasp. It sharpens, the edges finally coming into focus, and Sana isn’t surprised when she sees who it belongs to – it never disappoints, with everything it has promised.

She blinks. Surveys the damage on the table. The cake is half eaten, whipped cream mostly smeared on the table and her face. There are leftovers that will probably last for the next two days, that she should be putting away before they get stale, but Momo isn’t moving an inch, and Sana decides that everything else can wait.

The TV isn’t on. The apartment is silent, save for the ticking of the clock on the wall opposite them, and Momo’s quiet breathing. The steady rhythm of her own heart matches it easily, as Sana leans closer, resting on Momo’s shoulder – the most reliable respite she knows she can always count on. Today is no different. 

They sit there like that, content, sharing the moment, as the night turns into yet another morning Sana will spend with Momo, and Momo, Sana. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
